


Writers of the Purple Prose

by leafingbookstea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafingbookstea/pseuds/leafingbookstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the line from “Blood and Money” – “Oh Jack, not all of us are in bed at nine with a hot milk and a Zane Grey.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writers of the Purple Prose

**Author's Note:**

> Written (loosely) in the style of Riders of the Purple Sage, Zane Grey’s first novel.

The hour was just past nine in the evening. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson glanced at his watch and chuckled to himself. He took another sip of the hot milk that was liberally mixed with Benedictine and a dash of cinnamon. Setting the cup down, he turned the page of a favorite book he was rereading, Riders of the Purple Sage. 

The weariness of too many nights in a row, catching smugglers in a pre-dawn raid that morning after a late shift the night before, was finally catching up to him. He planned for an early night, to be in bed at a reasonable hour. _I’ll finish this chapter,_ he thought, his eyelids a little lower, the hand holding the book feeling a little heavier … 

________________________________________________________________________________________

Phryne Fisher could hear the horses before she saw them. The dust cloud on the horizon getting larger, the shadow of the riders getting taller in the early twilight. It was Murdoch Foyle and his men. 

She knew why they were here. They wanted Wardlow Ranch. Owning a cattle ranch was no business for a woman. Especially not the largest cattle ranch this side of Cheyenne. That it had grown twice over since she inherited it didn’t make a bit of difference. 

Phryne came down the porch steps as Foyle and his men approached the front paddock, the Winchester Repeating Rifle extending the length of her right arm was hidden by her long skirts.

“Miss Fisher!” Foyle called, staying on his horse, his back to the setting sun, “you won’t get away with it! Cattle rustlin’s a hangin’ offense in this territory, even if the thief is a woman.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talkin’ about, “ she replied with a calm in her voice that didn’t match the anger she felt. She had to shield her eyes with her left hand to see her adversary. When she did she saw another rider approaching behind Foyle and his men. This silhouette was lean and solitary; she almost thought she imagined him.

“James here,” Foyle was saying, gesturing a man on his left, “says he saw your cowhands, Johnson and Yates, over by Coyote Creek yesterday. That’s my land, Miss Fisher, and you know it. And just this morning I’m missing twenty-five head. I don’t reckon that’s a coincidence, do you?”

“Twenty-five head with my brand!” Phryne’s eyes narrowed. “Bert and Cec were merely taking back what you stole.”

Phryne pulled the Winchester out from behind her skirts and aimed for a spot between Foyle’s beady eyes. “You and your boys have one minute to get off my land, Murdoch Foyle, otherwise I pull the trigger. Sheriff Sanderson’s gonna be none too happy when I tell him you paid me a visit today.”

“George Sanderson is on a stagecoach halfway to Cheyenne by now.” The voice was that of the Lean Rider. It was a low, deep voice, made from equal parts whiskey and dusty trails. Hearing it made Phryne’s heart beat a little faster. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

Foyle’s head turned to the stranger, his eyes still on the barrel of Miss Fisher’s rifle. “ And who might that be, Stranger?’

“Me.” The Lean Rider had dismounted his horse and stepped up to the group with a graceful stride that shouldn’t be possible for a man who spent any time on a horse. Phryne lowered the Winchester an inch to get a better look at him.

“You can lower that gun now, Ma’am” he said, turning to her. “These gentleman will no longer be trespassing on your time. Deputy Collins told me all about Foyle, his crimes and how Sheriff Sanderson was paid to look the other way.” He turned and gave a loud whistle. Out from behind the barn at the side of the house came Deputy Collins and a dozen Federal Marshals, all on horseback. 

Foyle’s men turned tail and ran, the Marshals not far behind and catching up. Phryne turned to the Lean Rider “Please, Sheriff. I must know the name of my, as yet, unsung hero.”

“Sheriff Jack Robinson, ma’am, “ he said, touching a long, lean finger to the tip of his hat, “glad to oblige.” 

“Care for a whiskey, Sheriff?” she asked, her voice taking on a decidedly Australian accent that had been smoothed over by an English finishing school.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jack opened his eyes to Phryne’s face above him, a twitch dancing on her lips. The beading on her evening dress catching the light from the lamp on the night table.

“So, _Sheriff,_ " she smirked, sitting on the side of the bed, pouring herself a cognac from the bottle she held in her hand, “that must have been some dream.”

He took the bottle and the glass from her and set it on the nightstand next to the now cold Milk and Honey Mr. Butler had made for him earlier. 

“How much did I say aloud?” he asked, feeling a little sheepish.

“Enough for me to know that hearing me called “ma’am” isn’t so bad when it’s in your voice.”

“Well, ma’am,” he said, pulling her into his arms for a kiss; his attempt at an American cowboy accent making Phryne giggle. “I’m glad to oblige.”


End file.
